Old Remedies
by ALightInMe
Summary: Sometimes big brothers just have to take the gun away, and no it doesn't matter how old you are.


**Title:** Old Remedies  
 **Disclaimer:** I do not own or claim to be anything other than a fan of anyone or anything affiliated with the show Supernatural, the movie Incino Man, or the movie Love Peace  & Misunderstanding I don't own, so don't sue.  
 **Notes:** Let's say for the sake of this fic that Sam came back from Hell with a soul.

 **Summary:** Sometimes big brothers just have to take the gun away, and no it doesn't matter how old you are.

One moment he's himself, but the next he's not anywhere on the spectrum near it. Sam's mood-swings are just about enough to scorch Dean of all ability to smirk and roll things off of his shoulders using the sarcasm he builds in his system for the moments that call for it. Right now would be one of those moments.

Nostrils flaring and hands pushing his hair back from his face, Sam can't stop accusing Dean, and what's infuriating him even more is that Dean doesn't even try to defend himself.

"I know you took it," Sam tries with an even, understanding tone, "so why don't you just fold and hand it over, Dean," he says going for calm, but failing, spitting Dean's name out like it's venom.

 _Now_ Dean can find it inside of himself to smirk. Being demanded he fold is funny, so funny he's laughing on the inside.

He turns his back on his irrational brother and mutters just loud enough, "Go to bed, Sammy."

An electric buzz seems to vibrate through the silence before a sound so loud cuts through the silence that Dean, beyond all of his training as a hunter, jumps at the sound of it. It's not that Sam never got angry growing up. It's just that this Sam gets a lot angrier; driven by an all encompassing fear, thanks be to all that he suffered in hell. It's probably not the greatest idea that Dean has ever had, to hide Sam's glock, but, waking up to the sound of it dismantling and reloading over and over again in the dark last night was a sound so eerie that not even Dean could keep it from sending ice cold shivers down his spine.

Dean thinks for a moment of trying to reason with his little brother; explain to him maybe why exactly he felt the need to hide Sam's precious metal tonight. But since when has Dean ever been known to reason? So he tries for nonchalance and slowly turns around, just enough to inspect the damage of the wall.

"That's coming out of _your_ credit card when we check out," he grates out, angry for the expense, but grateful for the diversion from the thick angry tension that's rolling off of his little brother.

Sam's not so easily diverted. He couldn't care less about money, or holes in the wall the size of incredibly large fists. What he does care about is being safe. Feeling safe. _Why is Dean not getting this?_

What Sam does next is something Dean's sure that has been written about endlessly by fan girls out there that are writing their own versions of the Supernatural books; as if the exploit of their lives in those books for all to see isn't enough. It's that chest aching, unfair grip of a look from hazel eyes half hidden by a couple of strands of wayward bangs. It's that lost, wounded look, with just a touch of hope in the oh so convincing, innocent expression, that could only be found on the face of a sad little puppy, or a sad gigantic Sammy.

This is the point where Dean _does_ normally fold, but how do you tell your brother that his panic attacks, caused from the flashbacks that he's having of being in hell at night, have finally gotten bad enough that they are _scaring_ you? When he heard that sound of Sam loading his gun in the dark, Dean wondered if someone had broke in, even as unlikely as that concept was. However, as he forced himself to rise up in bed and blink enough to adjust his eyes to the dark, it registered that it was just he and Sam in the room. Then only for just a fleeting moment, he wondered if he would feel the barrel of so-said gun against his own head. He shook that thought away as quickly as it came. Sam may have been hanging on by a thread but that thread was still there, and it meant that Sam was still in there. Dean flipped the covers back and was up and reaching for his brother in the dark before he could even see him.

"Sammy?"

What answered back was a broken sob, and _still_ , the sound of a gun being dismantled and reloaded. He finally felt a shoulder, tense under his fingertips; rock solid under his calloused hand, but it didn't try and edge away.

"Sam, I'm going to turn the light on, buddy," he said an octave lighter than he was used to speaking. He hadn't had to use little Sammy-speak, a soft caring tone with Sam, in a very, very long time.

He turned on the light, not wanting to really see, but he couldn't just not, and he was justified in not wanting to see, because what he saw gave him reason enough to make sure he had Sam's glock safely hidden before they were to fall asleep again tonight.

Sam was rocking back and forth on the bed, sweat glistened his skin, shining sporadically in the light as he rocked. The big ball of Sam Winchester's form was in bed, bouncing with silent sobs that had his face purple from stealing his breath. He had his gun in his hand down at his lap, which wasn't where Dean was expecting to see it, and he could breathe again knowing Sammy didn't have it turned in against himself in anyway.

It took Dean a long moment before he got Sam to come out of it. He wasn't exactly asleep, but he wasn't exactly _in the room_ with him either. He was caught somewhere in the middle. After a little coaxing Dean was able to gently slip the glock from Sam's shaking hands, and replaced the gun with himself, allowing himself to be used as a human teddy-bear as Sam cried for all it was worth.

Now a night later as Dean stands off against his brother's manipulative puppy facade, he knows he has to speak of _it_. In all fairness, Sam's _making_ him.

"Sam, do you remember last night at all, dude?"

Sam's puppy look doesn't fade, only does that head cocked to the side look; so endearing and wrong on someone so massive. It's also a little stupid looking, or so Dean claims.

"Don't you try and play innocent with me. You and I both know that what happened last night was-"

"A one time thing," Sam interjected, interrupting Dean's Dad voice.

Dean's head drops, his exhaustion has him considering just letting Sam have the glock back. He sighs bone-deep and weary. _If only it were that easy, pup._

"Look Dean, I'm not going to hurt you in your sleep if that's what you think. I'm just-"

"I know you wouldn't hurt me, Sam."

"Then why won't you let me have it back?" he asks, raising his voice, and Dean finds just a hint of that old Sammy petulance in the tone that his gigantic brother just used. Where has his little brother's pride gone? He would be snickering right now if it weren't for the fact that Sam is going to make him _say it_.

"Because-"

"Because you think I'm going to hurt myself?" Sam asks like it's the most ridiculous thing he ever thought Dean would think. And still, not that easy. Dean knows Sam wouldn't want to die and possibly end up back where he just came from, not that he could ever see him being _sent_ to hell by a higher power that's been hearing his little brother's prayers since he was old enough to know how to bow his head in silent prayer before and after the hunts their dad would take them on; before for all of their protection no doubt, and after for the spirit of the ones just killed, but still. He can see Sam being afraid that he wasn't Heaven material.

When Dean just shakes his head and runs his hand down his face tiredly, Sam says raising his voice, "Well what is it then, Dean? You're not making much sense here."

Dean takes a steadying deep breath and on the exhale he lets it come out. "Last night, Sam, you weren't-...you were... you were in straight up Winchester personified, self defense mode... and you weren't exactly responsive... and the combination of the two... "

Sam squints; obviously wasn't expecting to be analyzed. It isn't like his older brother to do the analyzing, and it's extremely unsettling. He considers letting it drop where it's at, it's not like he's completely stripped of his defenses, he's got his knife, and it's not really even that a gun or knife can do that much damage to whom he wishes he could inflict the damage on. He just feels like he's losing every sense of who he is, along with all of his pride. Apparently he's not to be trusted while they're supposed to be sleeping and that just kind of pokes the big fat incompetent bruise with a stick.

Dean's seeing Sam's inner turmoil show up in the usual places, clenched jaw and drooping mouth; which he shouldn't be able to do that droopy mouth thing with his jaw clenched but Sam's big face does what it wants... and there goes the brooding shoulders...

Dean takes a step forward, not allowing anymore space to be in between them than what they started with. "You were just doing what came natural to you when you were scared, Sam, that's all. I get that, I do. But it hit me last night that when you're asleep, your defenses are down, and subconsciously, you know that about yourself. That's why you felt the need to grab your gun."

Sam erupts. "Well wouldn't you? I don't see why you're making such an issue of this man! If you know that I wouldn't hurt you or myself then-"

Dean shakes his head, with something like annoyance and sadness in his expression, making Sam so disturbed by the mixture of emotions that Dean's actually showing that he can't even finish what he was saying. But he feels unsteady suddenly, because here standing in front of him, his older brother is doing exactly what he wanted him to, he's folding. And if this is what it looks like, then Sam thinks maybe he doesn't want that. It's reeling him in, tugging at his rational side that's screaming at him to _listen to big brother_. Furthermore, as if everything isn't so heavy, Dean lets down the anchor.

"Don't you see, Sam? I was three feet from you and you didn't even know that I was here, man."

Sam stills at that. His eyes change drastically, and Dean realizes that he may have made this situation way too awkward to come back from, so he can't help but to try and divert the direction of the conversation a little. "You've got to start getting it through your head that you're out of that God forsaken place."

But that last part, Sam doesn't hear. It was the part before that, that Dean was really trying to convey to him, and Sam unmistakably heard it. The _I'm here and nothing is going to hurt you. Whatever it is would have to get past me to get to you_ part _._ Sam has heard that speech so many times when he was a kid that he could repeat it, and never did it not work.

All of a sudden, and without any warning, Dean's arms are full of eight year old boy wrapped in the form of twenty-seven year old man. It's something that doesn't take place a whole lot, hugging. But when it does happen, the Winchesters make it count. Last night wasn't quite the same thing. Sam was seeking safety when he was holding onto him. This kind of heart in your throat, bone crushing hug, only comes with the overwhelming sensation of gratefulness and relief. Dean thinks, _finally._

...

There's no need to look each other in the eye when Dean calls to the front desk asking for extra pillows, and there's really no need to say anything when Sam watches Dean push their queen size beds together. Sam does however, want to laugh out loud when he watches Dean do something very familiar; which is make a line of pillows on the edge of Sam's side of the bed and take the rest and dump them on the bed in no certain way. It's something Dean used to do when Sam would get scared or sick as a kid. Sam thinks that he should feel embarrassed, insulted even. The look on Dean's face though is strictly business as he gets everything situated. Sam silently decides that he doesn't really want to deny a night of feeling like he's safe just because his big brother wills it.

After they both climb into the gigantic bed with a ton of pillows, and get situated Dean turns the television on for there to be just enough light in the room, just in case Sam needs to find Dean within all of the pillows, and turns the volume down low.

Yeah, Sam is huge for a four year old tonight, but his brother is obviously Batman, so it's okay.

Neither say anything and both stay to their respective sides of the Dean-made bed. They both watch the TV while a Pauly Shore movie plays across the screen. They can't really hear it but it's okay, Sam doesn't really want to have to explain to Dean for the hundredth time that Brendan Fraser's character in Incino Man wasn't dead, just frozen, because Dean of course thinks out loud about what weapon he'd have to use to gank a caveman.

Sam's eyes begin to roll, feeling comforted by the line of pillows snug to the left side of his body, that is until he hears a blood curdling scream. His eyes pop open, and he suddenly starts at the hand that's found its way to his forehead. He looks over to his brother from under the heavy palm.

"It's not real, Sammy," Dean whispers reassuringly.

Sam keeps looking at him.

"Yes I'm sure," he says, reading his eyes, and pets Sam's hair back from his face soothingly, before comically patting his face a couple of times so that he can't see the TV.

Sam doesn't disappoint and starts slapping his hand away, griping about brothers and immaturity-something-something. Dean grins. Just like that, attention diverted. Win.

Even if the good times don't roll for long, there's not a lot that an annoying-yet-caring-brother-moment can't fix, and Dean's pretty much got it down to a science. It's just the right amount of goo without raising the embarrassment factor to new heights. Sam doesn't have to gripe that he's not a kid anymore and Dean's ears don't have to bleed. And with their respective roles aside, absolutely nobody is going to complain about sleeping on a giant Dean-made cloud. There's just certain things that make it past the pride-line and travel right up to the it's-so-awesome-nobody-questions-it-mark.

Sam relaxes again and looks back at the TV. He tries to count in his head how many pillows are actually on the bed with them. It's always oddly comforting, the haphazard way Dean strolls the pillows about the bed. Somehow there's even one under his right calf.

...

It's a little rocky that first hour with Sam startling awake the first few times that he dozed, but eventually Dean looked over and Sam was out.

Dean felt like fist pumping the air in victory, and he totally ignored the voice inside his head that said he was resembling an enabling parent. Screw getting Sam off on a firm start; he raised him right once. It's his call and if it got Sam some sleep to break out an old remedy or two then so be it. The next time they do this there's going to be snacks.

Sam didn't get his gun back tonight and Dean didn't offer it, either. The fact that Sam didn't even ask for it speaks volumes.

End


End file.
